Same Time Next Year
by Mestizaa
Summary: The unconventional friendship between Martha and Jim over the years. A/U. (But sort of canon compliant.)


_Summary: Martha and Jim over the years. A/U. (But sort of canon compliant.)  
_

_Author's Note:_

_Back when people were writing speculation fic about Kate's recovery and the aftermath of Castle's declaration of love, I took a completely different route. I don't really know what to say about this one. It's definitely not your run of the mill Castle fanfic. Which is why I'm terrified of posting it._

_The premise comes from a play and later movie entitled, Same Time, Same Place. Other than that, there is very little resemblance to it. This started off as the story of Martha and how she evolved from a wide-eyed girl trying to make it big, to who she is today.__ But then, it somehow evolved to be the story of a fling that became an unconventional friendship. _

_Thank you Celeste J Evans for helping to get out of my rut. _

* * *

**Same Time Next Year**

_Amor sem sexo  
É amizade  
Sexo sem amor  
É vontade..._

_-_Rita Lee, "Amor e Sexo"

Love without sex  
is friendship.  
Sex without love  
is need.

_~Late March, 1966~_

She was young and impressionable, but by no means was she a saint. She had no idea what had possessed her to go to bed with a complete stranger. Although, she supposed, he wasn't much of a stranger now.

His name was James. He had introduced himself as Jim the night before, but Martha was never a fan of diminutives. She liked the name James, how she could draw out the long vowel and whisper it in his ear. She could never have gotten the same results with the staccato of "Jim." He apparently loved nicknames and, much to Martha's chagrin insisted on calling her "Patsy." Only when it was somewhere between late night and early morning, and the lights were off and clothes were shed, did he call her Martha.

She clutched the bed sheet to her bare chest, and stared at the ceiling, memorizing the patterns in the brush strokes. The persistent hammering of birds made silence impossible. He lay next to her- that much she knew. She didn't know if he was sleeping, and she didn't want to risk waking him with the slightest movements. There was a chance that he was awake (there was no way he was sleeping through the bird songs) but she really didn't want to deal with it right at that moment.

What was the etiquette for situations like these?

"Now what?"

She jumped at his voice. How long had he been awake? How long had he been lying just like her? How long had he been lying there, staring at the ceiling, stewing in the awkwardness of this entire situation?

His question was very straightforward. Much like everything else about him. There was no guessing, no assumptions, nothing false about him.

She sighed and closed her eyes. "I don't know."

"Neither do I."

Silence passed between them. The birds continued their symphony outside the cabin. They were starting to drive her crazy. Martha Rodgers was not meant to be out in the wild. She was a city girl, through and through. She had always been exposed to the bustling nature of New York. From a young age, she would help with her family's act on Coney Island, entertaining hordes of tourists from all over the place. But eventually, she wanted bigger things; she wanted Broadway.

"How about," he interrupted her thoughts, "we have some breakfast, and then we can deal with…this."

"Breakfast?" The concept seemed so foreign to her. She couldn't remember the last time she had actually had some. Now that she thought of it, she couldn't remember the last time she had been up early enough for anything to constitute as breakfast.

"Yes. Breakfast," he repeated. "I'm starved."

He rolled out of bed, exposing his naked backside. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks and immediately looked away. She felt ridiculous. Why was she embarrassed? It's not like there was anything she hadn't seen before. She silently prayed that he wouldn't notice her discomfort. He noticed.

"Shouldn't I be the one blushing?" he teased as he left the room.

She groaned and hid under the sheet. She stayed there for a moment, trying to calm her nerves. She took a breath, slowly pulled the sheet back and sat up. She glanced around the room, realizing, for the first time that morning that her clothes were sprawled in every direction.

If only her mother could see her now. She would be so ashamed.

The cabin was a quaint little thing. It belonged to his family, James had told her. He was supposed to go fishing with a friend, but said friend couldn't make it at the last minute. (Hence why Martha met him eating alone at a sleazy diner.) There was nothing spectacular about the cabin. There two other bedrooms, a bathroom, and a space that she supposed qualified as a living room. Nothing spectacular there either: a floral couch whose pattern matched the floral wallpaper, a television set, a coffee table in the center, an untouched mini bar to the side, and a swinging door that led to the kitchen.

Martha gingerly made her way into the kitchen after finding her clothes. She wore a white dress, a red belt defining her waist. And while the dress was much shorter than anything her mother would have approved of, at least her breasts weren't hanging out for the world to see. At least the square cut neckline covered her assets. And it wasn't like she was showing _that_ much leg; her red knee-high go-go boots actually covered quite a bit, she kept telling herself.

She paused before swinging the kitchen door open. Why was she trying to defend her wardrobe choices? Was this really who she was? Martha Rodgers: actress, singer, cheap harlot in a mini skirt?

She took a breath. No, she was Martha Rodgers, Broadway star in the making, who had just gotten through the craziest year of her life, who just needed to get away from the Big Apple, who just needed to figure out who she was when she wasn't playing a part on a stage. Martha Rodgers was not, and would never be a cheap harlot.

She ran her fingers through her red mane, quickly untangling any knots. With her shoulders back and her head held high, she pushed the door open and walked into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, brown hair flopping in his eyes.

"Want some?" Jim asked, motioning to a loaf of bread. "I know it's no Eggs Benedict."

"It's fine. Perfect actually." She sat down at the opposite end of the small table grabbed a slice of bread and started buttering it. Her movements were slow and mechanical. She just wanted to prolong the action so she wouldn't have to acknowledge him. She knew he was probably watching her. She could feel it. But she refused to look at him.

"So what are your plans for the rest of the weekend?" he asked, hesitantly.

Her eyes snapped up. "What do you mean 'what are my plans?'"

He shrugged. "Just wondering what a girl like you does in her spare time."

She froze, dropping the knife on the table."A girl like me? What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing!" he put his hands up in surrender. "I was just making some small talk!"

"Small talk?" she snapped. "You want small talk? Then tell me why you're here and not off in Vietnam like every other man your age! How's that for small talk?" His eyes flashed dangerously at the implication.

She realized her mistake too late. "Oh I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"Desertion?" His harsh tone made her cringe.

"That's not what I meant," her voice sounded so small to her ears.

"That's not what anybody ever means."

She watched in shock as he bolted out the back door. She had no idea what to do now. Follow him? Leave him to cool off? She didn't know how he would react in any situation; she didn't even know the guy.

_Oh God, Martha. Look at what you got yourself into._

She gave him a few minutes before she finally got her legs to move and follow him out the door. She found him sitting on a log, picking at the ground with a large stick. She stood a few feet away from him. If he had seen her, he gave no indication and continued pocking the dirt. She crossed her arms and mulled what she was going to say to him. Her mother always told her that if you wanted to get to know someone, you needed to give a little bit of yourself too.

"I left home last year," she blurted suddenly. "I got into a play called _Mousetrap_ and my life has just been out of control ever since. It's rehearsal after rehearsal, party after party. And when the show came to an end, I had no idea what to do with myself…"

She took a few steps closer. He still wouldn't look at her.

"New York became insufferable, all those people everywhere…" Still nothing. "So I hopped on the first bus to anywhere...And so here I am."

She sat down next to him.

"Please, say something," she begged, grabbing his hand in hers in order to emphasize her point. He didn't answer her. This was a bad idea. She should have left when she had the chance. Why was she here? Why was she _still _here?

"I've got flat feet," he finally said.

Taken aback, she frowned. It took her a moment to process his confession."Pardon?"

"That's why I'm not in Vietnam."

"Because of flat feet?"

"Or my _severe_ allergies, or the fact that I'm enrolling in college...again," Jim explained, still not meeting her gaze. He seemed to be really interested with the pebbles on the ground. "There are plenty of reasons. Depends on which of my father's friends wrote it."

"You seem bitter," he snorted at her obvious statement. She ignored him: "Do you _want _to be over there?"

"Oh God, no," he sighed. "It's just… if my father were anybody else, or more accurately, if his friends were anybody else, I'd be over there." He finally looked up at her, and she was shocked to see the turmoil in his blue eyes. "It's just not fair, Patsy."

"Life isn't fair," her grip tightened on his hand. The night before he had been so strong, so confident. And Martha realized, she really hated seeing him so defeated. She turned her head away from his piercing gaze. Instead, she down at the pebbles that had once held his attention. She continued, "But for every hundred bad things in the world, there's always one good. And those are the things that you have to live for."

"You're right," he replied, squeezing her hand back. "Appreciate the good."

His gaze intensified, causing her breath to hitch. Bringing a hand up, he brushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes fluttered involuntarily.

"Exactly," she whispered.

He leaned down and gently brushed his lips across hers. It was nothing like the night before. Last night was about passion and exploration and letting go. Today it was sweet, and grateful. Before she even processed his lips on hers, he stood up, and pulled her by the hand.

"Come on," he said. "Let's finish that breakfast."

They spent the rest of the day in each other's company, wandering around, enjoying the trails (or at least as much as her boots would allow.) At night they headed down to a truckstop diner, the same diner where they first met, and instead of flirting, and playing footsies, they just talked. About mothers and fathers, and disappointment. About dreams, and the fear of failing. About feeling lost and needing to find yourself. They talked about anything and everything.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to go fishing," she told him as the waitress brought their meals.

"Next time come dressed for it," he teased.

She dropped her fork that she had been holding onto the table. "Wait. Next time?"

"Umm," he stammered. "I didn't mean-"

"James," she stopped him. "I don't know about you, but this is the best time I've had in ages. I mean, the best time that didn't end with the police busting down doors."

"Me too," a goofy grin was plastered on his face. "Except for the police part of it."

Laughing she smacked his arm with her menu. "Hey!" he cried. "Assault!"

"Oh, shut up."

By the time Sunday rolled around, and they had to go their separate ways, they had already agreed: every last weekend of March. Same time, same place.

The following year, she found herself hovering outside that same diner trying to figure out what the hell she was doing back there. She hadn't even hesitated when she jumped on the bus. It was only when she arrived that the sheer madness of her actions hit her.

She was there on a promise. A promise made a year ago. A promise that was never really fully discussed. And she had no idea why she was keeping it. She had no idea if he was going to keep it.

She sighed and walked in, quickly scanning the tables for Jim.

A lot changes in a year. How was she supposed to know if he kept his part of the deal?

"Bring your hiking shoes?"

She jumped at the voice behind her. "Oh my! Jim! Don't do that!" she smacked him lightly across the arm.

A grin spread across his features and he opened his arms to her. "Hello, Patsy."

Their second meeting was much different than the first, that was true. At first it was all a bit strange, but that soon dissipated. The underlying awkwardness of a one night stand was gone and instead, they were just two old friends who spent the rest of the weekend catching up.

_~1970~_

Martha stood awkwardly at the door, her bag at her feet. Her back was sore, she was hungry, and yet she must have been standing there for a good five minutes just trying to work up the nerve to enter. She knew he was already there, if the blaring TV was any indication. She could do this. All she had to do was bring her hand up, turn the doorknob and walk in. Hand up, doorknob, walk. Hand up, doorknob, walk. The mantra continued on a loop in her mind, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She could only get as far as the first step before having to start over.

She was being ridiculous. It was their third anniversary. By now they both knew what to expect. These annual meetings had quickly become the most constant thing in Martha's life. But things had changed significantly over the past year.

Placing a hand on her stomach, she took a breath. She could do this.

_Hand up_. She lifted her right hand so that her arm was now at a ninety degree angle.

_Doorknob._ She reached for it and hesitantly turned it. She released a breath she didn't even realize she was holding.

_Walk._

A great weight seemed to have been lifted as she finally made it through the threshold. She surveyed the empty living room.

"James?" she called over laugh track emanating from the television. "I'm here!"

She heard a yell, but she couldn't quite make it out over the television. Her attention was caught when she heard the unmistakable crash of something heavy from behind the kitchen door.

She threw her bag onto the couch and shut the television off. "James? Everything alright?" she called as she quickly made her way towards the ruckus. He came rushing out, looking like he had just come out of a tornado. His hair stuck in every direction, he was sucking on his thumb (as if he had injured it), and he wore an apron that seemed to be splattered with tomato sauce.

"Don't go in there..."His thumb dropped from his mouth and he immediately froze in his steps, leaving the door swinging behind him. "Oh my God. You swallowed a planet."

She self-consciously crossed her arms over her belly. "And from the looks of it, you just made a nuke go off in the the hell were you doing in there, James?"

"You're...you're pregnant."

"Yes I'm pregnant!" she snapped. "This isn't all just fat, you know!"

"And you still came."

"Of course I still came," she said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you look like you're going to explode!"

"Don't worry. I'm due mid-April," she waved off his worries. "Now tell me what you were doing."

He wasn't buying it. "You traveled all this way? Alone?"

"I've done it before. It's really not that far."

"In your condition?" he exclaimed. "Is that even safe?"

"What was I going to do? Just not show up?"

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the couch.

"Jim..."

He was having none of it. "Sit. Here's a cushion for your back..."

"Jim-"

"Put your feet up on that...

"Jim-"

"Do you want another pillow?" he scurried to the bedroom door. I'll go get you another pillow..."

"JIM!"

He stopped halfway to the bedroom. "Yes?" he blinked.

"You're smothering me!"she cried. "I don't need another pillow! And while I appreciate the effort, all I really want right now is some food."

"Well, then, m'lady, off to the kitchen." At her puzzled expression he added, "I was warming up dinner."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you cook?"

"I don't," he smirked as he ducked out of the room.

Jim had made spaghetti. Or at least, he attempted to make spaghetti. How he managed to both burn it and undercook it was beyond her. The tomato sauce was surprisingly delicious though, so they resigned themselves to eating it with bread.

Jim reached across the table and dipped his piece in the pot. "I really can't believe you still came."

"Yeah well," she followed suit and dipped her bread, "there wasn't anything keeping me away."

He frowned. "What about the father?"

She snorted. "Please."

His eyebrows furrowed, and it was obvious he was debating whether or not to push the subject. And she really wasn't in the mood to deal with it. So she sighed, "Look, can we please talk about something else?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know," she said in between mouthfuls. "Tell me about school or something."

His blue eyes sparkled. "I have a degree."

"What?" she nearly dropped her cracker in the pot. "How? I mean, congratulations...but I thought you were graduating at the end of this term?"

He shook his head. "I was supposed to. But I took some summer courses, so I had enough requirements back in December. And the best thing is that I did this on my own," a soft smile graced his lips. "I'm going to law school in the fall."

His smile was infectious. She found herself beaming at him. "Congratulations, Jim. I mean it. You should be proud," Martha raised her glass of water. "Here's to making it on your own."

Jim brought his glass to hers and clinked it. "Cheers."

That's when she felt it. A sharp pain in her abdomen. A gasp escaped her lips and Jim was at her side in an instant.

"Oh no no no no no. Please don't go into labour. I'm not equipped for that! I'm going to law school, not med school!"

Martha froze for a moment, waiting to see if it would happen again. "I'm fine, Jim. It was just a kick."

"Some kick!" he exclaimed. He stood up and ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to spike in all directions. "That scared the shit out of me! Should you even be here?"

"I told you it's fine."

She spoke too soon. As soon as she uttered the last syllable, she felt a tight squeezing sensation in her lower abdomen. Bringing her hand to clutch at her protruding stomach, she tried her best not to give away her discomfort.

And then it passed.

Jim insisted on driving her back to the city. The smart thing to do was to let him. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. This was the first year that their getaway had been cut short.

"I'm sorry things didn't go as planned," she told him when he pulled the car in front of her apartment.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Really? It's not a big deal. Things happen," he shrugged. "Next time, just call in advance, and we can work it out."

She nodded silently. His number was tucked away somewhere in her little black book, and hers in his. They had never had any use for them before.

"You're welcome to come in for a bit," she offered. "There's no reason for our weekend to be ruined because of me."

Her weekend with James wasn't cut short like she had feared. They played card games, and lazed around her apartment the next morning. When he left in the afternoon, her apartment suddenly grew in size.

She gave birth a week later.

And suddenly, her apartment didn't seem big enough anymore.

_~1973~_

The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming.

And James wouldn't shut up.

"The other day Johanna said the funniest thing..." "According to Johanna..." "Johanna's organizing this huge protest..." "Johanna has the best work ethic..." "Gorgeous hair..."

He was worse than her chatty three year old who was playing in the den.

"Enough!"

He jumped at her sudden exclamation. "What?"

"Just ask her to dinner."

He shuffled his feet. "It's complicated, Patsy."

She rolled her eyes. "You're making it complicated. It's really not the difficult."

And that shut him up. For a little bit at least. Then he started asking her for advice on how to ask Johanna, and where he should take her. She was glad to give it to him. At least some progress was made.

_~1980~_

Martha had always thought that by age thirty she would know where she was going. It was the magical age where all the pieces would suddenly fall into place and everything would make sense. At one point in her life, she had assumed that she would be married with children. She thought that if she played her cards right, her career would be flourishing and she would be getting choices for roles rather than having to settle for a cheap paycheque. But life did not work out like she had planned. Thirty had come and gone, and so did thirty-one, and then thirty-two, and that was when she decided that she would stop keeping track. Numbers are useless and they only served to make her sad about the things she didn't accomplish.

She knew that she was being extremely short with Jim since she laid eyes on him this year. It started off fine. But then he started going on and on about Johanna and the baby and his amazing new job at the firm. He had it all figured out and he was so god damned happy.

Martha sighed as he spoke and drank another swig of her wine. Why couldn't the things she wanted come hand in hand? She had a son, no husband, which admittedly, she was okay with. She was less okay with the Worst Mother of the Year Award that came with her Tony nomination. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn't get it right.

"So are you going to tell me about Ricky? All you said was that he couldn't come this year," Jim asked. It was strange when Martha showed up by herself.

"He can't miss anymore days of school or he'll have to repeat the year," she admitted.

Jim's eyebrow raised slightly. There was something she wasn't telling him. "He's missed that much school? Has he been cutting?"

She shook her head. "No...It's my fault."

Martha's choice of career offered very little job security, so she would do what she could. Often, her play rehearsals were at stupid hours of the day, so she would get her her unemployed actor friends to watch him. Sometimes, she would take him to the library where he would be engrossed for hours. But on occasion, her jobs weren't in New York. When it came to that she would take him with her.

"It was so much easier when he was younger," she sighed and swirled her drink in her glass. "He doesn't necessarily want to come with me anymore. And now I'm getting in the way of his education!"

She quickly finished the rest of her drink. "I'm such a terrible mother."

"Patsy, that's not true-"

"But it is!"

"Patsy listen to me," Jim demanded. "You care about whether you're a terrible mother or not. That means that you care and love your son."

"It's hard when everyone is criticizing my decisions in raising him." Her voice is so small.

Jim reaches over and takes her hand in his."The decisions you make are your decisions. Nobody will ever understand why you do what you do, but there is always a reason behind it."

"Thank you," she squeezed his hand and wiped a stray tear with her other hand. Johanna and the baby were lucky to have him.

A few months later, Martha got a call for the role of a lifetime. She passed it up. She didn't even think about it. She never regretted it.

_~1984~_

A lot can happen in a year. When they would finally meet, the first few hours were always filled with conversation. In the early days, when Martha would still bring her son, Richard (or Ricky as Jim called him) would run around reenacting scenes from his books. Martha and Jim always talked about their kids. They talked about work. They talked about the stupid little things that changed. It was their routine.

Except this year.

Jim started talking, but Martha wasn't really there. It wasn't that she was disinterested. No, something else was pressing on her mind.

"Patsy," he finally said at dinner. She hummed and continued to play with her food. "What's wrong? You've been strangely quiet since you've arrived."

Martha sighed and placed her fork back on her plate. "I guess I have a lot on my mind." At his slight eye roll, (because that was really a terrible answer) she ran a hand through her curls, messing up her otherwise perfect hair. "I'm just worried about Richard. I've just enrolled him in boarding school."

Jim nodded in understanding. "The stability might give him a sense of normalcy."

"Also, I'm married."

At her rushed confession, the mashed potato he was swallowing turned and went down the wrong pipe. Martha had always been unpredictable, but this was a true shocker.

"When did this happen?" he asked once he recovered. His voice was raw from the coughing.

"October," Martha responded matter-of-factly. "We had a fall wedding."

Jim frowned. That was fast. When he had last seen her, there was nobody on the horizon. He had no idea what to say to her. He finally settled on "Congratulations."

Martha must have sensed the uncertainty in his voice because she jumped to the defensive. "It was love at first sight."

"Apparently."

Jim took another swig of his drink and said nothing more. If Martha wanted to talk, she would talk, and she obviously wanted to change topic. After a few moments, she finally broke the silence.

"James," she started tentatively, "Are we adulterers?"

He asked himself something similar, more so in the early years of his relationship with Johanna.

It wasn't as though they were doing anything wrong. He had always remained faithful, and so had Martha. "No, we are not adulterers."

"So does Johanna know about me?"

That was a loaded question. Johanna knew that Jim had a friend names Martha. She didn't know that he saw her annually.

His silence spoke volumes.

"I didn't tell my husband either. What am I supposed to say? How do I explain us?" she asked. "What do you tell Johanna?"

The only lie Jim ever told his wife was the lie that he told her repeatedly. He hadn't meant to lie to her. It just never came up. When it did, he was vague about it, and Johanna had made assumptions. He never corrected her.

"She thinks I'm on a business retreat," he finally admitted.

Martha paused. She wasn't sure how she should feel about that admission. "Oh."

"It's not that I'm ashamed or anything," he rushed to explain. "I just don't know how to explain who you are to me."

Her immediate instinct was to be outraged. However, that was the same reason why she didn't tell her new hubby. Her and Jim, they were complicated. They definitely weren't lovers, but friends wasn't quite the right term. They just were.

She had never felt the need to think about it before and maybe there was a reason for that. They didn't need to label what they had or try to explain it to others. Martha and Jim knew what it was, and that was enough.

_~1999~_

"Hello?" a women's voice rang through the receiver of the old rotary telephone.

"Johanna?" Martha said anxiously. It was out before her response had even registered in her brain. She had been waiting for James for hours. It wasn't like him to be late. He was always the one waiting on her. When she arrived, she knocked on the door and when he didn't answer, she walked to the back to look at him at his favourite clearing. When he wasn't there, she made her way over to the birdhouse hanging on an old oak tree and pulled out the extra key. He had put it there just in case he was ever to be late.

Years ago, when Richard was still very young, she had arrived before Jim. At the time, she was livid. It was pouring and her hyperactive son refused to stay put. By the time they arrived, she was ready to just kick off her shoes, and collapse on the couch. But then that didn't happen, so she waited in the car with Richard until Jim showed up an hour later, apologizing for making them wait. He made up for it by making a birdhouse with Richard, and then hiding a key inside.

So this year, Martha waited. And she waited. And when it was hours past dark, she flipped through her little black book for his phone number –a number that she had (surprisingly) never dialed before.

"Who is this?" the woman on the other and snapped.

Martha raised an eyebrow. She was not expecting such a hostile tone. "Hi Johanna, this is...M... Patsy." Martha cringed at her own usage of the nickname. Only Jim ever called her that. It made sense to introduce herself to Johanna as such.

"How may I help you?" came the curt reply.

Martha frowned a little at this. She should have planned this out better. She had no idea what Johanna knew.

"I was expecting Jim to arrive for the annual divisional retreat a few hours ago, but he has yet to arrive. I'm wondering if you knew anything about that," Martha lied smoothly.

There was a pause on the other end. Martha twirled the phone cord around her left hand as she waited for a response.

"Listen lady," the voice began tersely. "Jim Beckett will not be attending your so-called meeting. He is otherwise indisposed."

Martha tilted her head. "I don't understand. He was expected to be here. We were worried when he didn't show when he was supposed to. It's standard protocol to call when there is a change."

"Come off it _Patsy,_" she growled. "There is no divisional meeting. My father hasn't been to work in weeks."

Martha dropped the cord she had been twirling. It wasn't Johanna she had been talking to – it was his daughter. "I beg your pardon?"

"Go back to your so-called retreat and go fuck yourself, because he won't be doing it tonight."

And then, dial tone.

* * *

Kate slammed the phone down, and then ran her fingers through her short hair. She could not believe the gall that woman had, calling her father at his home. The home that he shared with his _family_.

"Katie?" she heard him call her from his study. "Come here!"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "In a sec."

She didn't move from her spot in the living room. She could do this.

When she had calmed down enough, she made her way to his study. She remained at the door, refusing to completely enter. His desk lamp was the only source of light causing dark shadows danced along the walls.

She watched as he reached across his desk and poured himself another refill. Although her expression remained neutral, he could feel her gauging both him and the amber liquid in his glass. The weight of her scrutiny and unspoken concern unsettled him, so instead of taking a swig, he place the glass on the table in front of him.

"Who was that on the phone?" he asked, fingering the rim of glass.

"Nobody."

"Don't lie to me, Katie."

She crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame and sighed. "She said her name was Patsy."

"Oh," his eyes darted to the calendar on hanging on his wall. He squinted slightly – between his alcohol induced haze, and his terrible eyesight, there was no doubt that he was trying to make out the tiny writing. "What did you tell her?"

"That you were indisposed."

"Good."

Kate turned to leave, but she changed her mind in the process. Turning back, she asked the question that had been burning in her mind since the phone call. "Dad?"

He grunted in response.

"Who is Patsy?"

He took a sip of his liquor. "A friend."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb with me," Kate told him firmly. "I know your friends. I've been forced into pretty dresses and dinner parties and I've met them."

"I have other friends." It was his only explanation.

"So why didn't she know about mom?"

"She's from out of town." Not completely a lie. "We don't see each other much. I haven't gotten around to telling everyone I've ever met about it."

It. Johanna's murder.

The liquor grew seemingly closer with every objection Katie had. But there was one that cut through him and tipped him over.

"Is she the reason you and mom fought?"

He took a large gulp, but it was suddenly too bitter for his taste. He pushed the glass away. "No."

"So you're going to shut me out now," she noted, her mouth twisting cynically at the corners. "Did I hit too close to home?" she taunted.

"Don't..." he warned.

She sighed and wrinkled her forehead in thought. "Is she the reason you drink?" she finally asked softly.

"Don't..." he growled again.

"Why are you drinking, Dad?" she kept on.

"I don't owe you an explanation," he picked up the glass and finished it defiantly.

"The day I had to clean your vomit off the bathroom floor because you couldn't make it in time, you owed me an explanation," she reasoned. And then she asked again, "Why are you drinking?"

"Because of your mother."

"Bullshit," the air around Kate was sizzling. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse. You've been drinking too much and too long for that to cut it."

"I like the taste." That sounded hollow, even to his ears.

"Try again."

"It helps me sleep."

"Then try tea or something!" she was leaning over him at this point. "Tell me Dad, why do you drink?"

"Because I want to!" he snapped.

Startled Kate backed away. "Why?"

"Because it helps." His hand moved towards the bottle. He was ready for another.

"With what?"

He unscrewed the top and poured. "The guilt."

"What guilt?" she asked softly. Did she even want to know?

He would see it through to the end. "Guilt for not being on the same page as her at the end, for caring more about how her dying affects me than her actual dying. Guilt for my daughter dropping out of college to come deal with me."

Exhaustion—in place of anger—now shone on her features. "Don't use me as an excuse, Dad."

He didn't seem to hear her. "The biggest source of my guilt, Katie, is forgetting," he told her. "I don't want to forget Johanna."

"You won't," she reassured him.

"But I want to forget the pain," he confessed weakly. "And I don't know how to do that while still remembering her."

_~May 2011~_

Martha spotted her target: a man, slouching under the weight of his sorrows. She took a seat next to him and handed him a coffee.

"This isn't how I thought we would meet again," he muttered to the woman seated next to him in the hospital. The circumstances surrounding their reunion were horrible. The funeral was bad enough, but the fact that his daughter had been shot and was now in surgery made it infinitely worse.

He barely looked at Martha as she took his hand in hers. "She's in good hands," she reassured him. She was a Tony Award Winning actress. She could keep her supportive mask on.

He looked around in a daze. He was numb. He remained seated in the corner, watching the chaos around him unfold. Watching, but not seeing. Nothing really registered anymore.

"Where did Ricky and Alexis go?" he asked.

Ricky. She hadn't heard that nickname in years.

"He is busy harassing some poor nurse somewhere for information, and I sent Alexis home," Martha explained. "She doesn't need to be here."

"She's grown up to be a good kid."

"So has Kate," Martha replied with a small smile. In her mind, little Katie Beckett was tall, gangly, and wore too much eyeliner. She had grown into her legs and got over her teenage rebellion since then, but Martha hadn't made the connection until she saw Jim at the funeral.

"I'm sorry, you know," Jim finally said, "For not calling and everything."

"It's okay," she gave his hand a squeeze. She didn't need an explanation. Richard had unknowingly given her some pieces to the story. At first, she had been confused, and then angry, but now it all seemed so pointless. "We're here now."

And that was all there was to say about that because at that moment his baby's life hung in the balance and her baby's life was falling apart and her grand-baby was shell-shocked because she's never had to deal with the prospect of death before. All Martha wanted to do was wave a magic wand and make it all better.

She held Jim's hand until her son's interaction with the nurse started to escalate. She pulled Richard away from the poor girl, refusing to show that her heart was breaking because he was so broken. She wanted to take Richard in her arms and rock him until he fell asleep. Because the sun would come out tomorrow to clear away the cobwebs and it would all be okay.

She wanted to to promise him that it would be okay and that the monsters weren't real. But he was 40 now, not 4. And his monsters were very real.

Her son looked so _old_. She wondered when that happened. (She tried shutting the voice in her head that wondered what the meant for her.)

She brought her arms around him. He remained stiff and unresponsive. She whispered nonsense to reassure him. Maybe she really was the brilliant actress she pretended to be. Maybe she would be able to convince him that it would be okay when she didn't quite believe it herself. And maybe it would really would turn out okay.

_~August 2011~_

Martha brought her hand up to the door and gently knocked. She hadn't been there in over a decade, yet it still felt so familiar. The wooden door was wearing away and needed a new coat of varnish, but so did everything these days. She could hear the patter of scurrying feet as they made it to the door.

"Martha?" Kate stood stunned. Of all people...

"Detective Beckett! How wonderful to see you!" she breezed easily into the cabin. "I'm so glad to see you're doing well."

Kate remained at the door, watching with a frown as the older woman made herself comfortable on the couch. "I don't mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?"

Martha didn't answer right away. She was too busy fluffing the pillow for her back. "These damn pillows are past their prime. Perhaps I'll give your father some for Christmas?"

Martha finally sat still and looked at her surroundings. Jim had redecorated since she had last been there. But it was the bits of wrappers sprawled across the room that really caught her attention. A half empty box of Cheerios on floor accompanied them, and a pyramid of soda cans (which were no doubt among Kate's biggest accomplishments over the past few weeks) lined the wall.

"I see you've been nesting."

Kate closed the door, and hid behind her curtain of tangled hair in shame. "I wasn't expecting anybody," she tried justifying.

Martha wasn't buying it. "Never do anything for others. Do things for yourself," she said. "If you're alright with living in these conditions, how could you possibly expect anybody to treat you with any decency?"

Kate frowned and made her way to a leather chair. She sat down and brought her knees to her chest. "Does Castle have something to do with you being here?"

"Oh Kate," Martha chuckled and waved off her concern. "He has no idea I'm here."

Kate's eyebrow rose in confusion. "Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm here because a friend of mine has been through something very traumatic and it seemed like the decent thing to do," she stated. "Why are you here?"

She saw no way out of Martha's strange little game. Kate sighed. "I'm here because I'm on leave, my father has a cabin and it's nice to get away. It seemed like the logical conclusion."

Martha nodded. "It is always nice to get away."

"Are you really here just to visit me?" Kate asked. Doubt still lingered.

"Are you really here to get away from the city? Or are you here to hide from it?" Martha retaliated. "There is a difference, Kate."

Kate was bristling. Good. A nerve was hit. "I know you mean well, but I don't need a lecture."

"I don't think you seem to understand how your hiding is hurting everyone around you."

Kate pointed an accusatory finger at the older woman. "It totally was Castle who put you up to this."

Martha rolled her eyes. While he may have been a factor in her little trip, he was not the only one. "He's not the only one who is suffering. And neither are you," she continued sharply. "Lanie, your best friend, performed CPR on you and you haven't called her since you've gotten out of the hospital. Your father-"

Kate interrupted. "What do you know about my father?"

"I know he hates seeing you like this." Martha took a breath, "Kate, it's okay to ask for help."

Calmly, Martha continued: "I'm not asking for you to talk to me. I'm asking you to listen. Take control of your life instead of constantly feeling sorry for yourself."

Kate wrapped her arms around herself. Her voice was quiet but firm. "Please leave."

So Martha stood up and headed to the door. This was exactly how she thought this scenario would play out. "Good luck, Kate."

She turned on her heel and marched back to the car. If Kate hadn't slammed the door so quickly, she would have noticed the older woman get in the passenger side.

"How did it go?"

"I think I might have been a tad harsh," she admitted to the driver. "Your daughter is horribly stubborn."

Jim cracked a small smile. "That she is." He turned the key in the ignition. "You do know I could have talked to her."

Martha shook her head. "It's okay. Glad to have been of service. Some things needed saying. Besides, she wouldn't have listened to you. You're too close to her. She would have shut you out."

Jim nodded sagely. He hated that she was right.

"Is that diner still around?" Martha asked suddenly.

Jim thought for a moment. "I have no idea. Haven't been there is decades."

"Can we check? For old times' sake?"

"Of course. For old times' sake."

They had some catching up to do.

* * *

_Started: 25/08/11_

_Completed: 23/10/13_


End file.
